I've Got Your Number
by asdfghjkl anime
Summary: Lucy Heartfilia has never felt luckier. She is about to marry her ideal man, Natsu Dragneel, but in one afternoon her "happily ever after" begins to fall apart. 'til Lucy meets a businessman named Laxus Dreyar. ... Plot by Sophie Kinsella. Standard disclaimers applied. xx
1. Introduction

**I've Got Your Number**: Fairy Tail style

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**Summary**: Lucy Heartfilia has never felt luckier. She is about to marry her ideal man, Natsu Dragneel, but in one afternoon her "happily ever after" begins to fall apart. Not only has she lost her engagement ring in a hotel fire drill, but in the panic that follows her phone is stolen. As she paces shakily around the lobby, she spots an abandoned phone in a trash can. _Finders keepers_! Now she can leave a number for the hotel to contact her when they find her ring. Perfect!

Well, perfect except that the phone's owner, businessman Laxus Dreyar, doesn't agree. He wants his phone back and doesn't appreciate Lucy reading his messages and wading into his personal life.

What ensues is a hilarious and unpredictable turn of events as Lucy and Laxus increasingly upend each other's lives through emails and text messages. As Lucy juggles wedding preparations, mysterious phone calls, and hiding her left hand from Natsu and his parents...she soon realizes that she is in for the biggest surprise of her life.

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**Author's Note**: Before I post the next chapter, I would like to say that I don't own _anything_ in this story. The story, **I've Got Your Number**, is a novel originally written by the author **Sophie Kinsella**. But, in this story, I have changed _all _the characters to Fairy Tail characters. So, if ever Sophie Kinsella is reading this (which, I will guess, is impossible?), I just want to borrow your plotline, because it's _really _nice, and I just want to make the characters to Fairy Tail's. Also, Fairy Tail characters are not mine either! They are all owned by the awesome creator of Fairy Tail, Hiro Mashima. To sum it all up, I don't own anything in here. Except this account, that is. Actually, I was just trying if it's a good idea to make the Fairy Tail characters be in the story of Sophie Kinsella, no? That's why I made this, yeah? And so, without further ado, I shall say the disclaimer.

**DISCLAIMER**: I own _nothing_. Literally. The plot is owned by **Sophie Kinsella**, and the characters are owned by **Hiro Mashima**. I hope you understand. I don't own anything, just this account.

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If you have read the novel, you'll know the story. **Big credits **to the original author of the plot.


	2. Chapter 1

**I've Got Your Number**: Fairy Tail style

* * *

**Summary**: Lucy Heartfilia has never felt luckier. She is about to marry her ideal man, Natsu Dragneel, but in one afternoon her "happily ever after" begins to fall apart. Not only has she lost her engagement ring in a hotel fire drill, but in the panic that follows her phone is stolen. As she paces shakily around the lobby, she spots an abandoned phone in a trash can. _Finders keepers_! Now she can leave a number for the hotel to contact her when they find her ring. Perfect!

Well, perfect except that the phone's owner, businessman Laxus Dreyar, doesn't agree. He wants his phone back and doesn't appreciate Lucy reading his messages and wading into his personal life.

What ensues is a hilarious and unpredictable turn of events as Lucy and Laxus increasingly upend each other's lives through emails and text messages. As Lucy juggles wedding preparations, mysterious phone calls, and hiding her left hand from Natsu and his parents...she soon realizes that she is in for the biggest surprise of her life.

* * *

**DISCLAIMER**: I own _nothing_. Literally. The plot is owned by **Sophie Kinsella**, and the characters are owned by **Hiro Mashima**. I hope you understand. I don't own anything, just this account.

**Note**: Everything is in **Lucy's point of view**.

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**Chapter 1**

Perspective. I need to get perspective. It's not an earthquake or a crazed gunman or a nuclear meltdown, is it? On the scale of disasters, this is not huge. _Not _huge. One day I expect I'll look back at this moment and laugh and think, _Haha, how silly I was to worry—_

Stop, Lucy. Don't even try. I'm not laughing—in fact, I feel sick. I'm walking blindly around the hotel ballroom, my heart thudding, looking fruitlessly on the patterned blue carpet, behind gilt chairs, under discarded paper napkins, in places where it couldn't possibly be.

I've lost it. The only thing in the world I wasn't supposed to lose. **My engagement ring**.

To say this is a special ring is an understatement. It's been in Natsu's family for three generations. It's this stunning emerald with two diamonds, and Natsu had to get it out of a special bank vault before he proposed. I've worn it safely every day for three whole months, religiously putting it on a special china tray at night, feeling for it on my finger every thirty seconds...and now, the very day his parents are coming back from the States, I've lost it. The very same _day_.

Professor Igneel Dragneel and Grandinee Marvell-Dragneel are, at the precise moment, flying back from six months' sabbatical in Chicago. I can picture them now, eating honey-roasted peanuts and reading academic papers on their his'n'hers Kindles. I honestly don't know which of them is more intimidating.

Him. He's so sarcastic.

No, her. With all that frizzy hair and always asking you questions about your views on feminism.

Okay, they're both bloody scary. And they're landing in about an hour, and of course they'll want to see the ring—

No. Do not hyperventilate, Lucy. Stay positive. I just need to look at this from a different angle. Like...what would Poirot do? Poirot wouldn't flap around in panic. He'd stay calm and use his little gray cells and recall some tiny, vital detail which would be the clue to everything.

I squeeze my eyes tight. Little gray cells. Come on. Do your best.

Thing is, I'm not sure Poirot had three glasses of pink champagne and a mojito before he solved the Murder on the Orient Express.

"Miss?" A gray-haired cleaning lady is trying to get round me with a Hoover, and I gasp in horror. They're Hoovering the ballroom already? What if they suck it up?

"Excuse me." I grab her blue nylon shoulder. "Could you just give me five more minutes to search before you start Hoovering?"

"Still looking for your ring?" She shakes her head doubtfully, then brightens. "I expect you'll find it safe at home. It's probably been there all the time!"

"Maybe." I force myself to nod politely, although I feel like screaming, "I'm not _that _stupid!"

I spot another cleaner, on the other side of the bathroom, clearing cupcake crumbs and crumpled paper napkins into a black plastic bin bag. She isn't concentrating at all. Wasn't she listening to me?

"Excuse me!" My voice shrills out as I sprint across her. "You are looking out for my ring, aren't you?"

"No sign of it so far, love." The woman sweeps another load of detritus off the table into the bin bag without giving it a second glance.

"Careful!" I grab for the napkins and pull them out again, feeling each one carefully for a hard lump, not caring that I'm getting buttercream icing all over my hands.

"Dear, I'm trying to clear up." The cleaner grabs the napkins out of my hands. "Look at the mess you're making!"

"I know, I know. I'm sorry." I scrabble for the cupcake cases I dropped on the floor. "But you don't understand. If I don't find this ring, I'm dead."

I want to grab the bin bag and do a forensics check of the contents with tweezers. I want to put plastic tape round the whole room and declare it a crime scene. It has to be here, it _has _to be.

Unless someone's still got it. That's the only other possibility that I'm clinging to. One of my friends is still wearing and somehow hasn't noticed. Perhaps it's slipped into a handbag...maybe it's fallen into a pocket...it's stuck on the threads of a jumper... The possibilities in my head are getting more and more far-fetched, but I can't give up on them.

"Have you tried the ladies' room?" The woman moves to get past me.

Of course I've tried the ladies' room. I checked every single cubicle, on my hands and knees. And then all the basins. Twice. And then I tried to persuade the concierge to close it and have all the sink pipes investigated, but he refused. He said it would be different if I knew it had been lost there for certain, and he was sure the police would agree with him, and could I please step aside from the desk as there were people waiting?

Police. Bah. I thought they'd come roaring round in their squad cars as soon as I called, not just tell me to come down to the police station and file a report. I don't have time to file a report! I've got to find my ring!

I hurry back to the circular table we were sitting at this afternoon and crawl underneath, patting the carpet yet again. How could I have let this happen? How could I have been so _stupid_?

It was my old school friend Cana's idea to get tickets for the Marie Curie Champagne Tea. She shouldn't come to my official hen spa weekend, so this was a kind of substitute. There were eight of us at the table, all merrily swigging champagne and stuffing down cupcakes, and it was right before the raffle started that someone said, "Come on, Lucy, let's have a go with your ring."

I can't even remember who that was. Levy, maybe? Levy was at university with me, and now we work together at First Fit Physio, with Erza, who was also in our physio course. Erza was at the tea, too, but I'm not sure she tried on the ring. Or did she?

I can't believe how rubbish I am at this. How can I do a Poirot if I can't even remember the basics? The truth is, _everyone _seemed to be trying on the ring: Cana and Mirajane and Juvia (old school friends up from Taunton), Lisanna (my wedding planner, who's kind of become a friend) and her assistant, Kinana, and Erza and Levy (not only college friends and colleagues but my two best friends. They're going to be my bridesmaids, too).

I'll admit it: I was basking in all the admiration. I still can't believe something so grand and beautiful belongs to me. The fact is, I still can't believe _any _of it. I'm engaged! Me, Lucy Heartfilia. To a tall, handsome university lecturer who's written a book and even been on the TV. Only six months ago, my love life was a disaster zone. I'd had no significant action for a year and was reluctantly deciding I should give that guy with the bad breath a second chance—and now my wedding's only ten days away! I wake up every morning and look at Natsu's smooth, freckled, sleeping back and think, _My fiance, Dr. Natsu Dragneel, Fellow of King College's London **[1]**_, and feel a tiny tweak of disbelief. And then I swivel round and look at the ring, gleaming expensively on my nightstand, and feel another tweak of disbelief._  
_

_What will Natsu say?_

My stomach clenches and I swallow hard. No. Don't think about that. Come on, little gray cells. Get with it.

I remember that Mirajane wore the ring for a long time. She really didn't want to take it off. Then Cana started tugging at it, saying, "My turn, my turn!" And I remember calling out, "Careful!"

I mean, it's not like I was _irresponsible_. I was carefully watching the ring as it was passed round the table.

But then my attention was split, because they started calling out the raffle numbers and the prizes were fantastic. A week in an Italian villa, and a top salon haircut, and a Harvey Nichols voucher... The ballroom was buzzing, with people pulling out tickets and numbers being called from the platform and women jumping up and shouting, "Me!"

And _this _is the moment where I went wrong. This is the gut-churning, if-only instant. If I could go back in time, that's the moment I would march up to myself and say severely, "Lucy, _priorities_."

But you don't realize, do you? The moment happens, and you make your crucial mistake, and then it's gone and the chance to do anything about it is blown away.

So what happened was, Mirajane won Wimbledon tickets in the raffle. I love Mirajane to bits, but she's always been a tad feeble. She didn't stand up and yell, "Me! Woohoo!" at top volume, she just raised her hand a few inches. Even those of us at her _table _didn't realize she'd won.

As it dawned on me that Mirajane was waving a raffle ticket in the air, the presenter on the platform said, "I think we'll draw again, if there's no winner..."

"Shout!" I poked Mirajane and waved my own hand wildly. "Here! The winner's over here!"

"And the new number is...4403."

To my disbelief, some dark-haired girl on the other side of the room started whooping and brandishing a ticket.

"She didn't win!" I exclaimed indignantly. "_You _won."

"It doesn't matter." Mirajane was shrinking back.

"Of _course _it matters!" I cried out before I could stop myself, and everyone at the table started laughing.

"Go, Lucy!" called out Cana. "Go, White Knightess! Sort it out!"

"Go, Knightie!"

This is an old joke. Just because there was this _one _incident at school, where I started a petition to save the hamster, everyone began to call me the White Knightess. Or Knightie, for short. My so-called catchphrase is apparently "Of _course _it matters!" **[2]**

Anyway. Suffice it to say that within two minutes I was up on the stage with the dark-haired girl, arguing with the presenter about how my friend's ticket was more valid than hers.

I know now that I never should have left the table. I never should have left the ring, even for a second. I can see how stupid that was. But, in my defense, I didn't _know _the fire alarm was going to go off, did I?

It was so surreal. One minute, everyone was sitting down at a jolly champagne tea. The next minute, a siren was blaring through the air and everyone was on their feet, heading for the exits in pandemonium. I could see Levy, Erza, and all the others grabbing their bags and making their way to the back. A man in a suit came onto the stage and started ushering me, the dark-haired girl, and the presenter toward a side door and wouldn't let us go the other way. "Your safety is our priority," he kept saying. **[3]**

Even then, it's bit as if I was _worried_. I didn't think the ring would have _gone_. I assumed one of my friends had it safe and I'd meet up with everyone outside and get it back.

Outside, of course, it was mayhem. As well as our tea, there was some big business conference happening at the hotel, and all the delegates were spilling out of different doors into the road. Hotel staff were trying to make announcements into loudspeakers, and cars were beeping, and it took me ages just to find Cana and Juvia in the melee.

"Have you got my ring?" I demanded at once, trying not to sound accusatory. "Who's got it?"

Both of them looked blank.

"Dunno." Cana shrugged. "Didn't Levy have it?"

So then I plunged into the throng to find Levy but she didn't have it; she thought Bisca had it. And Bisca thought Kinana had it. And Kinana thought Erza might have had it, but hadn't she gone already?

The thing about panic is, it creeps up on you. One minute you're still quite calm, still telling yourself, _Don't be ridiculous. Of course it can't be lost. _The next, the Marie Curie staff are announcing that the event will be curtailed early due to unforeseen circumstances and are handing out goody bags. And all your friends have disappeared to catch the tube. And your finger is still bare. And a voice inside your head is screeching, _Oh my God! I knew this would happen! Nobody should ever have entrusted me with an antique ring! Big mistake! Big mistake!_

And that's how you find yourself under a tale an hour later, groping around a grotty hotel carpe, praying desperately for a miracle. (Even though your fiance's father has written a whole bestselling book on how miracles don't exist and it's all superstition and even saying "OMG" is the sign of a weak mind.) **[4]**

Suddenly I realize my phone is flashing and grab it with trembling fingers. Three messages have come in, and I scroll through them in hope.

_Found it yet? Levy xx_

_Sorry, babe, haven't seen it. Don't worry, I won't breathe a word to Natsu. C xxx_

_Hi Luce! God, how awful, to lose your ring! Actually I thought I saw it... _(incoming text)

I stare at my phone, galvanized. Bisca thought she saw it? Where?

I crawl out from under the table and wave my phone around, but the rest of the text resolutely refuses to come through. The signal in here is rubbish. How can this call itself a five-star hotel? I'll have to go outside.

"Hi!" I approach the gray-haired cleaner, raising my voice above the Hoover's roar. "I'm popping out to check a text. But if you _do _find the ring, call me—I've given you my mobile number. I'll just be on the street."

"Right you are, dear," says the cleaner patiently.

I hurry through the lobby, dodging groups of conference delegates, slowing slightly as I pass the concierge's desk.

"Any sign of—"

"Nothing handed in yet, madam."

The air outside is balmy, with a hint of summer, even though it's only mid-April. I hope the weather will still be like this in ten days time, because my wedding dress is backless and I'm counting on a fine day.

There are wide shallow steps in front of the hotel, and I walk up and down them, swishing my phone back and forth, trying to get some signal, with no success. At last I head down onto the actual pavement, waving my phone around more wildly, holding it over my head, then leaning into the quiet Knightsbridge street, my phone in my outstretched fingertips.

_Come on, phone, _I mentally cajole it. _You can do it. Do it for Lucy. Fetch the message. There must be a signal somewhere... You can do it..._

"Aaaaaaah!" I hear my own yell of shock before I even clock what's happened. There's a twisting pain in my shoulder. My fingers feel scratched. A figure on a bike is pedaling swiftly toward the end of the road. I only have time to register an old gray hoody and a skinny black jeans before the bike turns the corner.

My hand's empty. What the hell—

I stare at my palm in numb disbelief. It's gone. That guy stole my phone. He bloody _stole _it.

My phone's my _life_. I can't exist without it. It's a vital organ.

"Madam, are you all right?" The doorman is hurrying down the steps. "Did something happen? Did he hurt you?"

"I...I've been mugged," I somehow managed to stutter. "My phone's been nicked."

The doorman clicks sympathetically. "Chancers, they are. Have to be so careful in an area like this..."

I'm not listening. I'm starting to shake all over. I've never felt so bereft and panicky. What do I do without my phone? How do I function? My hands keeps automatically reaching for my phone in its usual place in my pocket. Every instinct in me wants to text someone _OMG, I've lost my phone! _but _how can I do that without my bloody phone_?

My phone is my people. It's my friends. It's my family. It's my work. It's my world. It's everything. I feel like someone's wrenched my life support system away from me.

"Shall I call the police, madam?" The doorman is peering at me anxiously.

I'm too distracted to reply. I'm consumed with a sudden, even more terrible realization. The ring. I've handed out my mobile number to everyone: the cleaners, the ladies' room attendants, the Marie Curie people, everyone. What if someone finds it? What if someone's got it and they're trying to call me _right this minute_ and there's no answer because hoody guy has already chucked my SIM card into the river?

Oh God. **[5]** I need to talk to the concierge. I'll give my home number instead—

No. Bad idea. If they leave a message, Natsu might hear it. **[6]****  
**

OK, so...so...I'll give my work number. Yes.

Except no one will be at the physio clinic this evening. I can't go and sit there for hours, just in case.

I'm starting to feel seriously freaked out now. Everything's unraveling.

To make matters even worse, as I run back in to the lobby, the concierge is busy. His desk is surrounded by a large group of conference delegates talking about restaurant reservations. I try to catch his eye, hoping he'll beckon me forward as a priority, but he studiously ignores me, and I feel a twinge of hurt. I know I've taken up quite a lot of his time this afternoon—but doesn't he realize what a hideous crisis I'm in?

"Madam." The doorman has followed me into the lobby, his brow creased with concern. "Can we get you something for the shock? Arnold!" He briskly calls over a waiter. "A brandy for the lady, please, on the house. And if you'll talk to our concierge, he'll help you with the police. Would you like to sit down?"

"No, thanks." A thought suddenly occurs to me. "Maybe I should phone my own number! Call the mugger! I could ask him to come back, offer him a reward... What do you think? Could I borrow your phone?"

The doorman almost recoils as I thrust out a hand.

"Madam, I think that would be a very foolhardy action," he says severely. "And I'm sure the police will agree you should do no such thing. I think you must be in shock. Kindly have a seat and try to relax."

Hmm. Maybe he's right. I'm not wild about setting up some assignation with a criminal in a hoody. But I can't sit down and relax; I'm far too hyper. To calm my nerves, I start walking round and round the same path, my heels clicking on the marble floor. Past the massive potted ficus tree...past the table with newspapers...past a big shiny litter bin...back to the ficus. It's a comforting little circuit, and I can keep my eyes fixed on the concierge the whole time, waiting for him to be free.

The lobby is still bustling with business types. Through the glass doors I can see the doorman back on the steps, busy hailing taxis and pocketing tips. A squat Japanese man in a blue suit is standing near me with some European-looking businessmen, exclaiming in what sounds like loud, furious Japanese and gesticulating at everybody with the conference pass strung round his neck on a red cord. He's so short and the other men look so nervous, I almost want to smile.

The brandy arrives on a salver and I pause briefly to drain it in one, then keep walking in the same repetitive route.

Potted ficus...newspaper table...litter bin...potted ficus...newspaper table...little bin...

Now that I've calmed down a bit, I'm starting to churn with murderous thoughts. Does that hoody guy realize he's wrecked my life? Does he realize how _crucial _a phone is? It's the worst thing you can steal from a person. The _worst_.

And it wasn't even that great a phone. It was a pretty ancient. So good luck hoody guy if he wants to type _B _in a text or go on the Internet. I hope he tries and fails. _Then _he'll be sorry.

Ficus...newspapers...bin...ficus...newspapers...bin...

_And _he hurt my shoulder. Bastard. Maybe I could sue him for millions. If they ever catch him, which they won't.

Ficus...newspapers...bin...

Bin.

Wait.

What's that?

I stop dead in my tracks and stare into the bin, wondering if someone's playing a trick on me or I'm hallucinating.

It's a phone.

Right there in the litter bin. A mobile phone.

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**[1] **- His specialism is Cultural Symbolism. I speed-read his book, _The Philosophy of Symbolism_, after our second date and then I tried to pretend I'd read it ages ago, coincidentally, for pleasure. (Which, to be fair, he didn't believe for a minute.) Anyway, the point is, I read it. And what impressed me most was: There were so many footnotes. I've totally got into them. Aren't they handy? You just bung them in whenever you want and instantly look clever.

Natsu says footnotes are for things which aren't your main concern but nevertheless hold some interest for you. So. This is my footnote about footnotes.

**[2] **- Which, actually, I never say. Just like Humphrey Bogart never said, "Play it again, Sam." It's an urban myth.

**[3]** - Of course, the hotel was on fire. The system had short-circuited. I found that out afterward, not that it was any consolation.

**[4] **- Did Poirot ever say "oh my God"? I bet he did. Or "_sacrebleu__!_" which comes to the same thing. And does this not disprove Igneel's theory, since Poirot's gray cells are clearly stronger than anyone else's? I might point this out to Igneel one day. When I'm feeling brave. (Which, if I've lost the ring, will be never, obviously.)

**[5] **- Weak mind.

**[6] **- I'm allowed to give myself at least a _chance _of getting it back safely and him never having to know, aren't I?

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**To be Continued. **_Remember, I don't own anything. 'til next time._

_**Happy April Fools' Day, everybody.**_


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